


And Both Shall Row

by mllelaurel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Catharsis, F/F, Fluffier Than That Sounds Probably, Implied/Referenced Past Torture, Rope Bondage, Shades of Hurt/Comfort, Swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllelaurel/pseuds/mllelaurel
Summary: Sometimes a fellow sovereign is the only one who can push you in the ways you need.(Originally posted as a FE3H Kink Meme fill.)
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Petra Macneary
Comments: 16
Kudos: 63
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	And Both Shall Row

**Author's Note:**

> Full kink meme prompt: 
> 
> Petra/Edelgard rope bondage. 
> 
> Petra is the sovereign ruler of Brigid who regularly comes to visit Edelgard in Fodlan or vice versa. Petra skillfully ties Edelgard up with red rope using complex patterns.
> 
> Edelgard has a trauma in regards to being restrained and having a person she trusts tie her up brings her a form of catharsis. Art or writing fills welcome, additional gentle loving or rough fucking greatly encouraged.

She’s never been one for watching the ships coming in. All too often her attention wanders to the dark waters churning beneath the bow, and her stomach roils. Today, though, there is wind from the West and the voice of a crier letting her know that a Brigid flag has been sighted. Edelgard closes her eyes against that wind, breathes in the heady brine of it. It buffets her, leaving her giddy and foolish, wisps of escaped hair catching in her mouth. 

If the opinions of Adrestian nobility still held any value in her reign, surely they would have muttered at the sight of their Emperor coming all the way down to the docks just to greet a queen of a country that had once paid them fealty. If Edelgard held as little power as her father once had, they might have even said it to her face. Fortunately for all involved, those in power today have all either fought at her side in her taking of Fodlan, or proven themselves too useful and practical to be gotten rid of. Brigid’s star is rising, and will keep rising along with the stars of Adrestia’s—true—common people, those who raised her up without gold in their coffers or the blood of saintly beasts in their veins. 

And Adrestia’s Emperor, in turn, is free to do what she damn well pleases. 

Petra lights from the docking plank, surefooted and lovely as always. Her skin has darkened a shade under the dappled sunlight of her island home. Her smile as she greets Edelgard is confident and warm. She has grown into herself, Edelgard thinks. Years as a hostage have tempered her. She’s never been less than kind, less than gracious and thoughtful. But it’s freedom and pride which have forged her into Brigid’s wise and dearly beloved queen. Through wars and interbellum turbulence, she’s never once lost sight of her goals. Edelgard admires that about her, with no trace of irony. All the same, she knows the weight of promises made to oneself in the dark. That weight lies lighter on Petra’s shoulders now, her eyes less shadowed than they once were. 

They greet each other with all the formality owed to a fellow sovereign. An equal. Not for the first time, Edelgard wishes she could feel the cool callus of Petra’s hand through the thin material of her gloves. That’s the trouble with gloves. They’re a necessary armor, to be sure, but with every muted touch, they keep her apart from the world. For the longest time, she thought it best. 

She meets Petra’s eyes, and the heat in them takes her breath away. Later. Always later. At least it’s a much sooner ‘later’ now. 

Brigid’s royal ambassador would be more than happy to host his queen for the entirety of her visit. He’ll talk Petra’s ears off if she’s not careful, updating her on every trade deal and treaty. Tonight, however, she dines at the Emperor’s private table. Edelgard watches her carefully as she eats. She’s ordered the cooks to prepare Petra’s old favorites. Succulent skewers of Gronder fox. A spicy stew of fish and turnips, which Hubert also favors. 

“You feel no hunger?” Petra asks, and Edelgard realizes, perhaps foolishly, that she is being watched in turn. 

Edelgard fiddles with the sauteed vegetables on her plate. The truth is, although her body is no longer tearing itself apart, freed from the acid agony of warring Crests thanks to the joint efforts of Professor Hanneman, Lysithea, and Linhardt, she’s never regained much of an appetite for anything but sweets. She still finds most meat dishes too rich to bear. It frets Hubert dreadfully, she knows. One who relies on strength as much as she does needs protein to sustain them. Especially now, without Crest magic helping her wield her axe. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Edelgard prevaricates, and finally gives in to the urge to touch the woman sitting next to her. Petra’s hair is thick and lush as the finest wool, a myriad tiny braids bumping Edelgard’s knuckles as she runs her hands through it. “It’s your fault for being so distracting.” 

“Shall I try to being less so?” 

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

The brush of Petra’s lips is gentle at first, then a good deal less so when Edelgard’s tongue slides inside her mouth. She tastes of Morfis wine underlaid with spice. Petra’s hands slide over her shoulders, her back, down her arms. Strong fingers wrap around her wrists, pinning them to exquisitely carved armrests. A shiver runs down Edelgard’s spine, fear and something sweeter in equal measure. Her heart hammers and the sea breeze steals her breath again.

“There’s something I want to try,” she tells Petra when they pull apart. “Tonight, later.” 

***

She remembers when Petra first taught her how to swim. Insisted on it, more like. Everyone in Brigid knew how. It was a matter of survival, she said. Her words lodged beneath Edelgard’s ribs. She’s always been a survivor, fear just another enemy to be mercilessly cut down. 

She remembers the tangle of seaweed between her toes. The sharp, salty smell, almost but not quite like woman’s arousal. Her feet sinking into the soft, wet sand as the water rose past her ankles, her knees, her waist. Petra’s grip on her elbow. A promise not to let go. 

The sensation of floating, weightless, some hitch below her collarbone releasing for the first time in years. The song of the seagulls, muffled into something lovely and strange as her ears submerge. Opening her eyes underwater. Reflections of sunlight in a world of green, not gray at all the way it had looked from the pier. 

And then the first wave, knocking her over backwards. The shock of water, her world tumbling about her in bubbles. Breath held by instinct, gulping for air the moment she broke through the surface. Hysterical giggles she would take seconds to identify as her own. 

Petra’s strength, helping her up. “See? You are harm-less.” She must have meant ‘unharmed,’ but Edelgard is laughing too hard to correct her. 

This isn’t safe, exactly. That isn’t what Petra had been trying to teach her. But there’s joy in it, in the battling and the winning. Flames, there is so much joy. 

***

“I want you to bind me,” she tells Petra in the long-awaited ‘later.’ 

The subject’s come up before. How much Petra enjoys the thought is no secret. Not with all her gleeful promises of capturing a Fodlan husband and bringing him back with her tied hand and foot. No such husband had materialized, and the two of them. Well. They are each a queen of a separate land. Neither will ever follow in the other’s footsteps. 

At first, Edelgard had balked at the idea. Tugged the cuffs of her sleeves tighter over the scars on her wrists where the leather restraints strapping her to the laboratory table all those years ago had dug in. She’d fought a war to escape that dungeon and ensure no one would ever have to live what she lived through again. To go back there now? Unthinkable. 

The narrowing of her eyes, the thin white line of her mouth made Petra drop the subject cold. She saw the scars not long after. She’s always been an intelligent woman. She figured it out soon enough, even without Edelgard telling the story. She will tell it, someday. But not yet. There’s only one person she’s ever cracked for, aside from Hubert, who’d been the one to pull her out. He helped bury her family. His knowing is only fair. And the professor… Ah, she’s always had a way of drawing Edelgard’s trust out into the open, raw and yearning. 

Tonight is not for stories. Tonight she will trust Petra with something else instead. 

“These will do.” Petra threads the hempen rope through her fingers, feeling for bumps and splinters in the thread. “If you are wanting a roughness, this is.” As the Emperor, Edelgard would not have had a hard time acquiring cotton or silk. But this rope, dyed in imperial scarlet, rough as life, this feels _right._

Edelgard’s eyes glimmer. “I like a challenge,” she says. 

“You are a challenge,” Petra replies. From her, it’s a compliment. She cocks her head. “Strip, then, my challenge.”

“You’ve got some nerve, giving such orders to the Emperor.” The reddening of Edelgard’s face makes a lie of the command in her voice. 

“You,” Petra says, “are not my Emperor.” She grips Edelgard’s chin one-handed. Hard reality roils beneath the lightness of her voice. 

Edelgard shudders in the iron of her gaze. Heat pools in her belly as some catch releases, some burden unhooks itself from her back. How many still remain who can say that to her? Petra may be the only one. 

She wears no armor beneath her gown these days. Just rows upon rows of endless buttons. Edelgard takes her time, teasing Petra as much as Petra teases her. The bodice falls away first, then the sleeves. Edelgard breathes, steels herself, uncuffs those as well, and lets the whole of the dress pool at her feet. Nothing but underthings now, and the scars beneath them. Scars Petra has seen before, time and time again. Edelgard would like to say it’s gotten easier with time, but lying has never been her strength. 

Petra watches her undress with searing intensity, then reaches for the laces of the chemise, freeing Edelgard’s breasts and cupping them in her hands. She savors the little noises Edelgard makes, the way she squirms at the intimate touch. “This too,” she says, when Edelgard hesitates at her smallclothes. 

“You do it then,” Edelgard shoots back. If she is to surrender, it will be by degrees. Having the last word is all too tempting. 

The last word, perhaps, but there’s little doubt Petra takes the battle as she slides this last fragile scrap of clothing down Edelgard’s legs, leaving her bare. Her fingers skim the curve of Edelgard’s hips and thighs, leaving her toe-curled and yearning, only for Petra to pull away. 

Through all of this, Petra remains fully clothed, draped in all the wild finery of her homeland. 

“Will I tie your wrists to the posts?” Petra gestures languidly at the columns holding up the canopy of Edelgard’s bed, then shoves her backwards so that she sprawls among the silk and down of it. 

Edelgard closes her eyes on the image of it—and her stomach sours. On her back, arms pinned, blinded by the cold lights overhead. The burning pain of needle and knife. Her jaw trembles, mouth forming the word ‘no,’ over and over again. 

Petra kneels next to her on the bed, cradling her face until she starts breathing again. “Not that, then. Not at all?”

Edelgard shakes her head. “I’d still.” She swallows around the lump in her throat, chews it down and sends it back to the fires from whence it came. “I’d still like to try.” 

Petra kisses her, brief and serious, then holds up the rope again, running the edges of it along Edelgard’s cheek. It tickles, soft and slightly scratchy. 

“Smell this,” Petra says. “It anchors.” 

The grassy perfume of it is subtle at first, nearly masked by oil and a crispness Edelgard can’t quite identify. Mixed together, there’s nothing dank in it. No blood or stagnant water, no acid at the back of her throat. All the while, Petra smooths a hand down her back, until she is satisfied that the panic has passed. Then, slowly, the touch shifts from soothing to sensual once again. 

Edelgard bites back a whimper as Petra pinches one of her nipples, winds the rope beneath her breasts, then between to part them. Rough hemp rubs against sensitive skin, and the frustration of not being able to lean into something already pressed so intimately against her is simmering fire, low until it bursts into a boil. Over her shoulders, crossed between her shoulder blades like the strap of a breast band. A loop-back beneath her arms, and the rope closes over the tops of her breasts. 

She could break out of this any time if she wanted to. Her hands are free. She and Petra would be equals if it came to a struggle. And yet, there’s a charge behind it, a cast of Thunder held in a mage’s palm, a wave rising up from the depths. Here is Petra, covering her with cloth of a sort—leaving all the tenderest parts of her naked and exposed, pulled into form and put on display. Edelgard’s cheeks burn. 

Two more skeins of rope, criss-crossing to make patterns along each leg, starting at her ankles and moving up, an almost familiar tease. Petra’s eyes glint as she parts Edelgard’s thighs, dips strong fingers inside her, there and gone, too quick to be satisfying. Edelgard groans as Petra slides those fingers into her own mouth and lets out a low, warm laugh. “You are dripping for me.” 

Petra’s words are liquid themselves, sliding over Edelgard’s skin. It’s all she can do not to squeeze her legs together. Her fingers scrabble, gripping the sheets to keep from covering herself on instinct. Her mouth goes slack on a moan, heedless and unasked-for. 

Petra beams, glowing and smug. “And you say you are not much of the singing.” 

“I could still revoke your diplomatic immunity,” Edelgard grumbles. 

“I would be liking to see you try.” One raised eyebrow from Petra. A challenge, as she ties loose rope into arcane knots, then threads it between Edelgard’s legs. Clever, Edelgard thinks. The knots pull right against her exposed cunt, against her clit, right where friction would feel best. They rub against her with every movement, every little hitch and jump of her hips. Petra’s calculated the distance perfectly, damn her. 

She knows it, too. Edelgard can tell, as Petra observes her handiwork. “One last touch,” she says, once she’s had her fill of Edelgard’s writhing. “Will your wrists be remaining free, or…?” 

Edelgard squeezes her eyes shut. “Just do it,” she says. No getting past the fear if she doesn’t let the wave bowl her over backwards. 

Petra studies her, expression carefully neutral, as though trying to determine how much Edelgard means it. If she waited any longer, Edelgard might well pitch a fit, but after a long few seconds, Petra nods. 

With that, she pulls her arms behind her back. She pins her biceps first, looping coils of rope pressing them to Edelgard’s sides. Then, at last, a tight cuff of rope at her wrists, criss-crossing with every pass. 

Something wild rises in Edelgard’s chest, but it’s not fear. It’s nothing like fear, nothing like anger, nothing like the numb nausea of helplessness. She bucks and wriggles as soon as Petra ties the last knot, struggling for the fight of it. Her heart pounds. Blood sings her in her ears. Every breath she draws into her lungs tastes cold and clear as water from a woodland spring. 

The knots hold. Just enough give in the rope so she can’t hurt herself. Never enough for her to find a weakness. Truth be told, she’d be disappointed if she found one. 

Petra settles in behind her, pulling in the tight package of her. The whisper of her breath at the nape of Edelgard’s neck, the brush of her lips, is almost too much to handle in its gentleness. ‘Don’t be gentle with me right now,’ Edelgard wants to say, but she doesn’t really mean it, does she? This is dangerous too. This is something she could never have brought herself to ask. So she shudders and lets Petra’s kisses take her apart, leans into the softness of clothed breasts against her naked back. 

“Comfortable?” Petra asks. 

Edelgard’s voice trembles on what should have been a simple enough ‘yes.’ 

“Would you care to come?” Petra’s fingers trail down Edelgard’s front, ticklish over her stomach. 

“If you want me to ask for it, think again.” Then, quietly, “Yes.”

Petra doesn’t tease this time. Instead, she slides down a hand to cup between Edelgard’s thighs. The pressure is nowhere near enough. Edelgard lets out a disgruntled noise. 

“You are thinking I will be doing all the work,” Petra says, more statement than question. She pulls on the rope harness from the back, and the bonds tighten. “You knew how to be going about it before.” 

“I will bite you,” Edelgard threatens. It would be rather difficult to pull off in this position, admittedly. The muscles in her thighs tighten and twitch in anticipation. 

Petra kisses the back of her neck again, just below the hairline. A sigh escapes. Edelgard gives in. Slowly, she grinds her cunt against the bonds, against the warm solidity of Petra’s hand. It’s not her usual speed, but she’s off-balance, still trying to learn what she likes in his new environment. The friction on her clit is almost too much. She thinks she might need too much tonight. 

“See, it is not hard,” Petra murmurs in her ear. “You can find what you want. You are powerful in this way.” 

Edelgard sinks into it. Lets the desire, the _need_ , drive her, faster and faster, until she’s gasping, sweat matting down her hair. Until the tension snaps, so hard and white she almost can’t breathe, lightning up her spine and the taste of honey on the roof of her mouth. Her bound hands grasp helplessly at Petra’s blouse, desperate for touch. 

When the beautiful fog clears, she’s in Petra’s arms, bundled tight against Petra’s chest. Petra bends to kiss her forehead when she sees her stirring. Edelgard blinks up at her, words sitting muzzy in her skull. It’s to her advantage now, the way Petra is often quiet in the afterglow. 

After a few minutes of stroking her hair, Petra asks, “Would you be liking that I untie you?”

Edelgard shifts. Her hands still have proper blood flow. That’s what actually matters. 

Petra waits for her reply. It takes some time in coming, which could be its own answer. “I’m all right,” she says, her voice gone scratchy and muzzy. She will want some water in a moment. When she can trust herself to sit up without shaking. 

***

It had been a hot day in Brigid when she first spread out her arms and swam. Afterwards they lay on the sand, side to side, fingers barely touching. The sky above was a cupola of blue, fractured only in sunlight. The sea lapped at Edelgard’s toes, deceptively gentle. 

“I won,” she said, and Petra shook her head. 

“There is no winning against the sea,” she said. “It shall not move for you. It shall not change. “But you are existing here, still.”

***

“It’s your turn once you free me,” she tells Petra.

“My turn?” She can hear the lilt in Petra’s voice. As well she should sound pleased. She knows how good Edelgard is with her tongue. Then a quirk of the mouth, and Petra’s tone shifts ever more mischievous. “Who is to say I will be needing to free you for that?” 

“You don’t think I can?” The challenge rouses Edelgard from her lassitude. She makes good on her earlier threat, nipping Petra’s shoulder. 

“I think you are speaking where you could be acting,” Petra replies, and rolls them over. 

_Yes,_ Edelgard thinks. _I’m still here._ But more than that, this isn’t merely surviving any more than the sea had been. You can’t conquer an ocean, nor fear in its purest form. But you can look it dead in the eye. You can blind it in the light of day. _And so, I win the bout._

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from "The Water Is Wide," originally a Scottish folk song, I believe, since covered by pretty much everyone. [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d32rALuwRtQ) is the one I grew up on.
> 
> Thanks to [Letterblade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade) for beta!


End file.
